


Balancing Act

by Quantum_Witch



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angels, Demons, Fear Play, First Time, Humor, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Religion, Seduction, Slash, Topping from the Bottom, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-21
Updated: 2007-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum_Witch/pseuds/Quantum_Witch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A church needs redeeming, and when Aziraphale cannot do the job, Crowley does so in the most over the top way. Angelic gratitude is the gift that keeps on giving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based entirely on a dream. I woke up giggling and went to write it down. It grew a bit in the telling, as things do, but there are far fewer changes than you might think. I love my dreams. (Also, this story is written with the assumption that Adam's "no more messing people around" rule doesn't apply to really serious cases.)
> 
>  
> 
> Do not republish or distribute this story, in whole or in part, anywhere else without my permission.

Imagine, if you will, the charming town of Overprud just outside Bristol, England. There sits a smallish church of late Tudor construction, which is named St. Jerome and Our Lady of Scriptures. This church is presided over by Reverend Hubert Dunch, who had once been as average as reverends get, concerned about the world and his soul and those who looked to him for guidance. But he has lost his faith, and it drags him down. It has led to a lack of conscience, stealing from his own parish, cheating on his wife, drinking, gambling, and many other unimaginative vices. The reasons behind his lost faith are numerous and tedious, and therefore shan't be recounted in this story.

The reverend is teetering upon a precipice that threatens his soul. And worse, the reverend is one of those individuals with a bit more psychic ability than he realises. Thus his lack of conscience has become so very metaphysically strong it has overlapped the souls of his_congregation_, some hundred plus people. They, feeling the tug of his steadily blackening soul, have begun sin as well and scarcely wonder why. They haven't the will to stop.

Thanks to this parasitic situation, St. Jerome and Our Lady of Scriptures is now the church with the most concentrated wickedness in all of England.

And this fact niggles terribly in the back of a certain angel's mind. He is the Principality of England and feels like he ought to be doing something about it. He has, in fact, tried. Being that he isn't allowed to fully manifest as an angelic presence, he is reduced to visiting St. Jerome's and sending out positive vibrations to the church-goers, and trying to focus thoughts of righteousness and good will on the reverend's mind. He hopes that he's done a good job of influencing without interfering with human free will. But alas, the church remains ever-resistant, as though it simply doesn't _want_ to be good. And though the angel despairs, he knows he's done all he is allowed to do. Plus he has many other tasks that press upon his time, such as collecting rare Bibles and feeding ducks and enjoying life after the Apocalypse which didn't happen.

Imagine now that a span of time, say half a year, has passed, and the church grows ever darker. The angel senses it still, but feels he can do nothing more about it. He does, however, whine a great deal about the situation while drinking with his best companion who happens to be, most oddly, a demon of only remotely evil persuasion. The angel sighs softly and lolls his head against this demon's shoulder, and tugs repeatedly at the demon's necktie while babbling about goodness and wickedness and effability, oh silly me, _in_-effability. And the demon grits his teeth and barely holds himself back from either strangling the angel or snogging him, just to shut his mouth. The demon prefers the latter option. He is now wondering if the angel wants the same thing, but the damned angel could just as well be clueless about the signals he's presumably giving. The demon is getting frustrated.

The demon and the angel have long been sharing their duties in the world. A little temptation here, a little thwarting there, and both have become rather expert at doing one another's jobs so long as it doesn't involve extremes. It would all get done anyway, and neither Heaven nor Hell seem to care _who_ did the job as long as it got done. So the demon decides he'll do something about the little church himself, but not to tell the angel about it until he succeeds. Then he plans to use the angel's undoubted gratitude and delight over this good deed to, if possible, seduce said angel. He is a demon, after all, and therefore still a bit devious.

And now, we come to present time (even though the _tense_ of the story changes to past… you get the point)…

* * *

Crowley could smell the church miles away. It certainly didn't approach a level of Inquisitorial evil, but with humans you could never tell what would tip them over the edge and into the Pit. And it was always _their own fault_. If he could prevent such horror, then he would do so.

The bloody angel was going to owe him big for this.

He parked in front of the deceptively quaint church and, as he'd guessed, easily entered the building without so much as a whiff of holiness to singe him. It was worse than he'd thought. Time to pull out the big guns, so to speak. He sniffed around the altar, looking for de-sanctified Communion wine, but then he sensed a human presence. It seethed, waiting like a spider in its lair. Crowley smiled. Down a side hallway, he found a door behind which he found the presence he sought.

"Oh, good," breathed the man in black vestments, a tumbler of whiskey in his shaky hand. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost. I must say," he looked at Crowley and licked his lips, "your advert didn't describe you _nearly_ well enough."

_Advert_? Crowley almost said aloud. Oh, oh-ho-_ho_. The demon grinned broadly, and when he grinned like that it looked lecherous even when it wasn't meant to. The reverend's thoughts were broadcasting so clearly now that any occult being would see them. An old-fashioned demon might see scenes from the _Malleus_ _Maleficarum_, witches and demons consorting in poorly done woodcuts. Crowley, being more modern, saw slick magazine pages in blazing colour, with lots of lubrication and open-arsed leather trousers.

The reverend quickly scanned Crowley's form - the flashy younger man, dark and handsome with high cheekbones and tempting mouth, sunglasses and stylish suit just waiting to be replaced with something more… appropriate to the situation – and very much liked what he saw. Rev. Dunch took a step or two nearer, obviously nervous and eager. "So, how does this start, then? It's all a bit new for me but as my advert said, I'm, uh, _quite_ _up_ for experimenting." He said '_up'_ as if it were a clever thing.

Crowley grinned until he thought his face would split. This was going to be so easy it was barely a challenge. Humans and their so-called vices, thinking that something like kinky sex was so _evil_. This man was one of the worse kind – so jaded with his role as 'upright example to his community' that he sought this 'vice' out to feel alive again. There was, however, hiding deep behind this façade, a sadness over the futility of his life. While Aziraphale would have tried to appeal to his memories of his calling, of God's love, of the Word… Crowley knew, in this case, it was too far gone for anything more than the boldest of bold moves.

"Well," the demon said slyly, "I guess we can start with some… confessions." He walked slowly around the reverend, sizing him up. A bit paunchy, a bit grey at the temple, and definitely sweating. "What sort of experimenting are you willing to do? What am I supposedly getting paid for this little encounter? Is it out of church funds? Off the books, absolutely. Have you set up a hidden camera for wank sessions later on? Got more funds ready to bribe me or anyone else who might try to expose your indiscretion? Oh dear, we _have_ been naughty, haven't we…"

The reverend, face reddening, choked, "Now, see here… I thought you were… but the ad…" He faltered, the glass in his hand sloshing. "You're not… "

Crowley still smiled, but it seemed far less friendly. "No, I'm not here for any ad. No, not from the police. No interest in blackmailing you. You can't begin to guess my purpose... But now I suppose it's _my_ _turn_ for confessions, eh? Sit down, friend…" Crowley utterly hated using archaic words, but sometimes it was the best way in these circumstances. His demonic aura flared up noticeably as he intoned, "…_And hearken ye welle, mortal_…"

Rev. Dunch collapsed like a limp puppet onto his chair, and watched with growing terror as the handsome young man mutated before him.

Crowley removed his sunglasses first and the golden reptilian eyes gazed deeply into the reverend's soul, raking it like the blood-red claws he then sprouted. With a bit of irony, he seductively stripped his jacket, tie and shirt off, exposing a shapely but scaly torso covered with eyes, and mouths with sharp teeth. When their many tongues licked out like whips and tasted the reverend's cheeks, the man screamed. Crowley lashed out a serpentine tail then, wrapping it around Rev. Dunch's face to silence him.

"Now, _holy __manne_," Crowley hissed, a long forked tongue flicking from his no longer pretty mouth, "Dost _this_ be the showe thou longs for? Hast thy hart lusted for suche as _me_." Horns sprouted on his head and thighs, splitting his trousers provocatively up to the hips, as his feet became steely hooves, scraping the floor and sending up sparks.

"Verily, thine soul hangs bye but a _thread_ o'er the Pitt of Hell," Crowley boomed, unleashing his wings, feathers black as pitch and glowing with sulphurous light. "Dost thou long'st to be cast doun? To drag thy flocke wyth thee? For this is thy destiney, _shouldst__ ye_ _continue_ to steale and lie, to fornicate, to indulge thyself wyth gamef of chance, and to care notte about the World beyond thys onne! Thou doom all those that follow ye, manne, womanne and chylde! _All_ _doom'd_ _to_ _eternal_ _fyre__ and_ _pain_. But now… come ye closer… _feel_ that which thou _lust_ for…" There appeared a bulge of insane proportion in Crowley trousers, threatening to burst forth and claim the reverend's body as well as his soul. It seemed to be squirming like so many other parts of the demon's form.

With a shriek, the reverend scrabbled loose from Crowley's tail and away into the corner, whimpering piteously.

Seeing the man was nearly scared straight, Crowley knew his job was almost done. "Holy manne, once pious and true and goode," he warned, stabbing a claw in his direction, "if ye _repent_ _thine_ _wayf_, once more take ye up the mantle of righteousnef… and be it honest and kinde, _not_ _merely_ _to_ _avoid_ _such__ af_ _me_… then ye sharle be spared the agoney of Hell and eternal firef, and thy flock as well. _Canst_ _thou_ _do__ this?_"

"Yes! Yes!" the reverend shouted hoarsely, "Once I was good! Once I believed and preached the Word with a clean heart! I can be so again! I shall! My flock shall not suffer for my sins! Oh, please, demon, begone! Begone!" He'd obviously caught the fever of archaic speech. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Alas, I see I cannot yette claim thy soul. But… _I sharl_ _watch_ _upon__ thee_…," Crowley snarled, and departed in a blast of smoke and flames. Fortunately they weren't enough to burn anything other than a small patch on the carpet, which the reverend would leave forever as a reminder of his close encounter.

* * *

It took Crowley a few hours to feel normal again. He kept checking himself for extra parts. Such episodes always left him worrying he'd be stuck in a form other than the one he preferred.


	2. Part 2

Imagine now, some months later, the same town of Overprud, and St. Jerome and Our Lady of Scriptures. But imagine it this time with a happy glow inside and out. The reverend, having opened his heart, once more feels the true glory of God and he cannot contain it. It overflows. It brings his entire congregation back from the brink, and they follow willingly. See, if you can, how many of the congregation, as well as the reverend, enter into counseling for their wicked ways, not entirely sure why they'd fallen into such bad habits but happily renouncing them.

Imagine as well an angel many miles away, who had tried to forget the church, fearing it was beyond his help. And see the demon who is his friend driving them both toward that very church, grinning to himself and crossing his mental fingers that the entire gambit will pay off.

* * *

"Oh, Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped in delight and confusion. "It's… glowing! It's _really_ _redeemed_!" He clapped his hands together, as in prayer, and turned a genuine look of joy at the demon. "I wonder how on earth it… could… have…" His face gradually became stiffer and more suspicious. "Okay. What did you do?"

Crowley shrugged, trying to sound modest, and fooling no one. "You said you couldn't do it. I figured it was my turn to do a bit of miracle work, so… Well, there you go."

Aziraphale looked dubiously back and forth between the lovely glow of the church and the false humility of his friend, and finally said, "You did something _outrageous_, didn't you? You… you…what?" he flailed, searching for possibilities, "manifested yourself as an angel?" It was the least likely thing he could think of.

Grinning slyly, Crowley said, "Very nearly."

Aziraphale gasped again. "You _wouldn't_! I mean, really, now… we're not_ supposed_ _to_… you wouldn't, would you?"

"Very _nearly_, I said. Besides it's only _your_ lot who get told you can't manifest. Anyway, I did the whole Bosch thing. All I was missing was an animal head and only because I really hate beaks. Can't speak very clearly with them."

"Oh, dear, oh… I…," Aziraphale spluttered, unable to think of anything to counter. After a few moments of considering everything, he sighed. "Well, I suppose you did do a _good_ thing here. Even if you went completely overboard. I suppose, sometimes that's what it takes."

"And it was kind of fun," Crowley muttered. When he saw the angel's slight frown of disapproval, he sighed as well. "Like you said, I did a good thing. In fact, it was a little _too_ _good_. This act was so good Hell might even notice it, and if they do… well, they'll start asking questions…" Crowley began to look worried. "Come on, let's go. I think I need a drink or something…"

As they walked away from the church, Aziraphale bit his lip, realising Crowley might be right. "Well then, we'll just have to figure out something equally wicked to balance things out. Er, maybe not one single thing, maybe a lot of little things…"

"No, I don't think so," Crowley shook his head, and began looking around nervously in the gathering dark, as if searching for lurking figures. "One big thing will balance it out faster, and it's less likely they'll notice who did it."

"Damn. Yes, you're probably right. Well, who should, er… I mean, you've already handled the _miracle_, I suppose I… I owe you, as it were," Aziraphale fretted as they approached the Bentley. "But what I should do is rather, well, beyond me. I'm not sure I can handle anything quite on this level…" He looked at Crowley with sincere blue eyes. "If you were me… an angel… what would _you_ do?"

Crowley stopped before touching the car door. This sort of opening couldn't be ignored, not by someone devious and horny. He paused, then approached Aziraphale until he was standing very much in his personal space. Aziraphale blinked at him, growing a little breathless. When the demon opened his mouth to speak, the angel could only stare at his lips.

"If I were _you_… if I were an angel, and I had to do something _wicked_ enough to equal a demon redeeming an entire church… what I would do…"

"Yes…?"

Crowley's breath brushed Aziraphale's cheek as he whispered, "I'd find that demon, and shag his brains out."

For a few seconds' pause, the only sound was a few rustling leaves and a distant dog barking.

Then the angel said, in a low and steady voice, "I agree."

A few more seconds paused themselves. There was the flutter of a small flock of birds overhead, and sounds of traffic several blocks away.

"You what?" the demon asked, eyes wide.

Aziraphale moved the last few inches toward Crowley, and said, "I think that such an action would, indeed, come very close to achieving the negative of what you've done. I think, yes, that an angel having… intimate relations with a demon would do the trick."

That annoying pause tried to creep in again, but Crowley interrupted it, saying, "So, do you want to-"

He was cut off by Aziraphale's hand dragging him by his necktie toward the nearest building. It was someone's home, but clearly empty as though the owners had gone on extended vacation; all the furniture was covered by sheets and the floor dusty. It seemed Aziraphale was willing to add breaking-and-entering to his misdeeds.

When they were inside, the angel pressed himself full length against the demon and gave him a look of not-very-innocent passion. "…And I think, more than simply having intimate relations with a demon… that an angel willingly giving _his_ _innocence_ to said demon might go a very great distance toward balancing out that miracle."

Crowley could barely breathe, so he didn't bother and glued his mouth to Aziraphale's, utterly mindless with desire. Minutes of wild kissing and pawing at one another's clothing led to collapsing on the dusty floor. Minutes more of tugging at clothes until skin was bared led to mouths finding very interesting places to suck at. The demon covered the angel's body with his own, grinding and twisting. The angel writhed deliriously beneath him, hands grasping everything within reach. Aziraphale gasped and groaned as Crowley slithered down his body, lips and tongue everywhere at once. Eventually the angel was begging, as though he was dying and his soul was in danger, for Crowley to take him with more than his mouth. Before that could happen, he climaxed so hard his spine arched like a cathedral ceiling. His voice rang out a powerful hallelujah, and Crowley wondered how many miles away they'd been heard.

When the angel relaxed a bit, Crowley crawled back upward, grinning and licking as he went. "Well, that was delightful," he murmured, nibbling at Aziraphale's collar bones.

"Isn't there… more… we ought to…" Aziraphale panted softly, still wiggling under Crowley. "I want… _please_…"

"You're sure you've never done this before?" Crowley raised a teasingly skeptical eyebrow.

"Of _course __not_," Aziraphale scoffed, quite serious. "Now _shut __up_ and _teach_ _me_ what to do, damn it!" He grabbed Crowley's taut, narrow arse and pulled him closer.

"All right, Mr. Bossy, turn over," Crowley nudged him impatiently. When Aziraphale pouted, he said, "Easier first time, trust me. You can look at me later. Let's just concentrate on the business at hand, shall we?"

The angel rolled and was immediately assaulted by fabulous new sensations, moist fingers in places that made him twitch and groan and shove his bum upward helplessly. The demon laughed and very soon was pressing himself inward. Then Aziraphale yelped, stiffening.

"Oh for pity's sake, angel, you don't have to _let_ _it_ hurt!" Crowley growled. "_Relax_, let me…"

With a deep, quick breath, Aziraphale calmed. Until he felt the demon moving inside him, then he all but howled in pleasure and bucked against Crowley wildly. The demon was merely there for the ride, it seemed, but hardly minded. Further minutes of impassioned thumping and moaning, and both were tensing in positions impossible to all but Olympic-grade gymnasts.

The pile of angel and demon flesh melted together on a dusty floor took its time in deciding to move again, and then it was only to separate with a soft grunt. The separated piles lay near one another, breathless and unwilling to speak for some time.

Finally the angel turned his face to the demon, opened one eye wearily and said, "My dear… I have some bad news for you."

Curious, but not enough to be worried, Crowley grunted, "Hmph. Whaddaya mean?"

"That didn't cancel out the miracle. Sorry."

Crowley opened an eye, looking puzzled. "What the hell are you talking about? You… but… _how_ _can_ _this_ _not_ _be_ _equal?_"

Aziraphale gave a chuckling sigh. "I'm afraid that you've only made it worse, in fact." He turned and wrapped an arm around the confused demon, pressing a kiss against his chest. "You've just given an _angel_ an experience of Divine Ecstasy so… well, it rather fails to be wicked."

Crowley gaped wordlessly and tried to sit up, but was held down by deceptively strong pudgy arms. "_What_ _the_ _fuck?_"

"And a wonderful one at that. But no, it really didn't count at all toward fixing the imbalance. I'm afraid that is still extant."

"Then what the hell do we _do_?" Crowley finally succeeded in sitting up, with Aziraphale's hand slowly stroking his thigh. "They're _bound_ to notice it Downstairs, and for that matter Upstairs, pretty damned soon. If this just tips things even further toward the Good, then I'm screwed."

"Indeed, very nicely so," the angel smirked, enjoying the banter now that he understood some of the lingo. "All right, all right. I'll do something that makes up for it. I promise."

"What will that be? Fucking the demon the other way 'round? Will that make any difference now?"

"No, very likely not. Though I wouldn't mind trying…" Aziraphale saw the look of real desperation on the demon's face, and sighed. He pursed his lips, thinking. "You've got quite the talent for smaller actions that lead to greater results, and I've always rather admired that." He missed Crowley's expression of stunned pride. "Okay… I have an idea. I think… Yes, this will probably re-balance the scales…" Frowning in concentration, after a moment he let out his breath and put his cheek down on the floor. "Not easy to do from a distance, influencing something like that, _but_… well…"

"What did you do?" Crowley leaned down, intrigued. "Give someone a coronary? Set off a bomb?"

"Oh, don't be stupid," the angel grabbed him and dragged him down into another kiss, which lasted several minutes and led to a bit more groping. "Just… wait 'til tomorrow and read the newspaper. Until then… mmmmmyyy…goooooodness… yesss…"

And thus it went for another hour. When the floor was completely dust-free and Crowley was actually beginning to sneeze, they re-dressed and went back to London, grinning quite a lot.

* * *

Sometime in the early evening, Aziraphale found his vision blocked by the sudden appearance of a newspaper, followed by the enormous grin of a demon in sunglasses.

"You are _bloody_ _brilliant_, angel! I absolutely lo- ook… upon this as a triumph of nearly demonic proportions."

"Well, I'd hardly go _that_ far," Aziraphale took the paper and laid it down atop the book he'd been reading, and gave a slightly grimacing smile. "But it does seem to have managed the proper balance in things. Er. Perhaps."

The front page was a splash of colour photos of a slightly bloody football field, with an enormous headline: "ENGLAND LOSES TO URUGUAY! WINNING TEAM ACCUSED OF FOUL! FANS MOB THE FIELD! SEVENTY-FIVE INJURED, THIRTY CRITICAL! FANS CREATE HAVOC IN THE STREETS! THE RIOT HEARD ROUND THE WORLD!"

"I think I may have overdone it. I do so hope no one actually, er,_ dies_ from their injuries," Aziraphale looked worried.

"No, no, that won't happen, guaranteed. But all that anger and violence sent out a wave of sheer, well, _badness _that Hell can't help but notice. I might even get a medal." Crowley brushed a hand across the distressed angel's cheek. "Come on. We can't go out anywhere right now because people are still storming the pubs… but I recall you have a _sofa_ in your back room…"

* * *

Imagine the battered old sofa becoming as dust-free as the floor of the previous night. And imagine the world giving a sigh, knowing things are back to normal.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: There is no actual Overprud in Bristol, but the name is archaic for "overly proud". "Dunch" comes from the archaic "dunchedeuel" meaning "hit the devil". St. Jerome is the patron saint of librarians, thus Aziraphale's special interest (Lady of Scriptures just enhances that). And Hubert is the name of a saint who converted when faced by a horned beast in the forest who declared he would go to hell if he didn't repent.


End file.
